


The Good Place

by ImpishTubist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Implied Violence, Language, Mentions of Suicide, Reunion Fic, implied alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not easy, this resurrection business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.
> 
> Betas: Archea and Canon_Is_Relative
> 
> This fic started out as one thing a couple of months ago and then morphed into something quite different. Many thanks to my lovely betas for their help and encouragement. I couldn't have pulled it together without you two! As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.

Lestrade hears the news from Mycroft Holmes first, long before he sees Sherlock. The man is flippant and clearly bored; his explanation, brusque.  
  
 _ My brother is alive. I’m told you would want to know. _  
  
And because it turns out that Mycroft is the reason Sherlock stayed safe all those years he was away - not to mention the reason why Lestrade managed to hold onto his job after Sherlock’s fall - Lestrade just barely resists cracking a fist across his smug face. But he does turn on his heel and walk away without another word, pausing on the threshold of the man’s damned Diogenes Club long enough to light a cigarette and grind it into the carpet with his heel.  
  
John is his first phone call after that, and the one consolation in all of this is that he sounds as stunned as Lestrade feels.  
  
 _ Faked it. The whole thing. Moriarty... he threatened us, Greg. Told Sherlock he’d put a bullet in the brains of his three closest friends unless he killed himself. But he found a way around it, the git... Of course he did. Showed up at the door yesterday, half-fainting from exhaustion and starvation, but alive. _  
  
_ He came back to us. _  
  


  


* * *

  


Lestrade had known Sherlock six years when the detective stepped out into thin air and plunged six stories to his death on a cold morning in June.

It’s almost nine years to the day of that first meeting when he sets eyes on Sherlock again and, absurdly, that’s the only part of this whole fiasco that he can focus on.

Sherlock has been dead for one-third of the time that Lestrade’s known him, and that’s just staggering.

And he finds himself turning the numbers over in his mind as he goes throughout his day, because three years _should_ be nothing. It’s a grain of sand on the beach, waiting to be washed away by the tide and forgotten.

There’s a calendar sitting on Lestrade’s desk, and as he turns the page from one day to the next he does a quick calculation.

There are one thousand, ninety-five days in three years.

Sherlock was gone for over _one thousand days_.

It may be a grain of sand, but its vastness is overwhelming.

  


* * *

  


Lestrade was forty-nine when Sherlock died. He’s fifty-two when Sherlock comes back. One-seventeenth of his life, thinking Sherlock gone forever.

Sherlock was thirty-one when he died. He’s thirty-four the day he strolls through the doors of Lestrade’s office, whole and well. One-eleventh of _his_ life.

A small portion, but still it shows. Sherlock has tiny lines fanning out from the corner of his eyes that no longer fade when his face is passive, and his gaze is worn; wary. Lestrade sees the beginnings of a jagged scar on his forearm when Sherlock reaches out to shake his hand, and up close he notices that there are thin strands of silver mixed in with the ebony of Sherlock’s hair.

Lestrade does the only thing he can think of - murmurs, “Welcome back,” and accepts Sherlock’s nod - and then takes a seat behind his desk.

There’s work to be done.

But his mind doesn’t stay on the work as they begin to slog through his latest case, because there is a file in front of him with pictures of a real person who met a very real end. And there are dozens more tucked away in cabinets: cold cases and dead children and families who have been left behind.

Three years ago, Daniel told the Chief Superintendent that Sherlock worked twenty or thirty cases for them; Lestrade, in a fit of curiosity he now regrets, had looked up the actual number that night.

Thirty-six.

Thirty-six cases in six years. Lestrade adds this to his growing list of numbers. Six cases a year. Eighteen in three. Eighteen cases Sherlock might have solved; eighteen suspects he might have put away; eighteen families who might have been spared undue suffering.

“Thirty-six,” he says suddenly, interrupting Sherlock mid-word, and the other man glares.

_ “What?”  _ Sherlock asks, irritated.

“Thirty-six cases,” Lestrade repeats. “You worked thirty-six cases for me. Solved ‘em all, too. Thirty-six cases in six years.”

Sherlock lifts one shoulder in a shrug and turns back to the file, and that’s finally when Lestrade allows himself to be angry. To be furious. And that’s also when the words come, three years of frustration spilling from his lips now that he knows their grief was all for naught.

He says _fool_ and _idiot_ ; he says _madman_ and _insane_. Sherlock died to save three people, and Lestrade can respect that. What he can’t accept is the body count left behind in the wake of the fall, because he dies a little bit - every year, every day, every _hour_ \- trying to save dozens, and still it isn’t enough because he’s not Sherlock and never will be.

Three lives. Three lives saved in the blink of an eye; dozens lost in three years because Sherlock died on account of him.

How does one measure _that?_

“Don’t you _ever_ ,” Lestrade says finally, his voice raw and unrecognizable even to his own ears, “put my life before someone else’s, Sherlock Holmes. Never again. Especially yours. Don’t you _dare_.”

Sherlock’s eyes slide moodily from Lestrade’s own to fix on the wall behind his head. He says nothing.

Lestrade turns back to the file.

  


* * *

  


It isn’t until Sherlock’s first crime scene after his return that Lestrade starts to take true note of the physical toll that those three years had on the consultant. Sherlock hands his coat to John and rolls up his sleeves to the elbow the moment he arrives, eyes flicking over the bloodied mess of the victim on the floor, and whatever Lestrade had been about to say dies in his throat as he sets eyes on Sherlock’s arms for the first time since the fall. Scars crisscross the once pristine flesh, some years old and others appearing as though they had been acquired only the other week.

His arms look as much a crime scene as the one that they’re standing in the midst of, and Lestrade’s sudden silence is noticeable. Sherlock glances at him and then barely suppresses an irritated sigh.

“Really, Lestrade, you act as though you’ve never seen a scar before.” Sherlock snaps on a pair of gloves and adds, “You can’t honestly believe I came through those years unscathed.”

Yes, he could, but Lestrade is wise enough not to voice that particular thought.

  


* * *

  


If any illusions Lestrade might have harbored about Sherlock’s invincibility began to crack at the sight of those few angry lines that mar his arms, then they are shattered completely when Lestrade realizes that the scars are the least of Sherlock’s injuries.

Sherlock crushed a kneecap and dislocated a shoulder in the fall, and had been forced to spend weeks recovering on Molly’s sofa after undergoing a multitude of secret and carefully-arranged surgeries. On the good days his limp is barely noticeable; on the bad, he will hold onto John’s elbow when he thinks no one is watching them, his lips pressed together in a pained grimace.

They’re outside the Yard one morning, Sherlock smoking and Lestrade fighting the urge to take a cigarette for himself. He hasn’t touched them in nearly a year - a new record.

“What happened there?” Lestrade asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets to keep them from picking Sherlock’s. He nods at Sherlock’s left hand, which he’s brought to his mouth with the cigarette. The final two fingers are slightly crooked, and Lestrade notices that Sherlock has been favouring them.

“Broke the fingers on this hand in Lucerne,” Sherlock says shortly. It’s obviously a sore point. “There wasn’t time to have them set properly, so I did it myself.”

“Christ.”

Sherlock takes a drag on the cigarette. “Snapped my ankle in Italy. Broken ribs in Maine. Fractured wrist in Vancouver.”

He goes on, listing locations and injuries as though he’s reading from a scholarly journal, voice flat and eyes fixed on a point somewhere in the middle distance. He doesn’t look at Lestrade and won’t elaborate on any of the reasons behind the injuries; Lestrade isn’t sure he wants to know. But he keeps a mental tally, and when Sherlock abruptly stops talking he has counted twenty-two broken bones.

And then Sherlock says, “Sixteen,” and Lestrade is momentarily lost.

“What?”

Sherlock sighs and drops the cigarette to the ground, crushing it into the pavement with his toe. The lines around his mouth are tight with pain - whether at a remembered ache or at the injuries he carries with him every day, Lestrade isn’t sure. “I also acquired sixteen new scars while I was away.”

Lestrade rocks back on his heels; blows out a puff of breath. “Hell, mate, what happened to you out there?”

But John is coming their way now and Sherlock straightens, the creases in his forehead and around his mouth fading until he appears his usual aloof and detached self. Lestrade frowns, because it isn’t like Sherlock to keep something from John. And then Lestrade wonders if Sherlock isn’t so much hiding from John has he is _sparing_ him, and his confusion is replaced by a dull ache in his chest. They had known each other only eighteen months when Sherlock died; by the time he returned, thirty-four had passed.

_ Twice as long _ . A difficult obstacle to overcome in any friendship, no matter its strength. And now here was Sherlock, trying to make the transition as easy on John as possible. Sherlock Holmes, trying alone to carry the memory of three painful years so that John didn’t have to.

Lestrade shakes the numbers from his head as John finally joins them.

“Come, John, we’ve a baker to investigate,” Sherlock says, his voice crisp, and he strides away without so much as glancing back at Lestrade.

And the charade might have been worth it, Lestrade muses to himself, had John bought Sherlock’s lies. But the look John shoots Lestrade as Sherlock walks away is that of a man who has spent too many sleepless nights wondering who this is who has returned to them, and what happened to the Sherlock who left.

  


* * *

  


Lestrade visits Sherlock’s grave.

It had been a perhaps-monthly occurrence while Sherlock was gone, and Lestrade figures he made thirty or so visits over the three years.

Now, he goes nearly every week.

He can’t say what possesses him to visit a grave he knows to be empty, but somehow the marble stone that bears Sherlock’s name is more familiar to Lestrade than the living thing. For three years, _this_ had been Sherlock, and though that’s been proven a lie Lestrade still finds it difficult to shake the sense that Sherlock is here rather than out there, alive, in the world.

_ You can’t honestly believe I came through those years unscathed. _

Lestrade leaves a packet of cigarettes at the base of the headstone, as is his custom, and departs. 

  


* * *

  


Sherlock takes to breaking into Lestrade’s flat again three months after his return. Sometimes he has a purpose - looking for extra space for his experiments; warding off boredom when John is on a date. More often than not, he’s there before Lestrade returns home from the Yard and expends his energy on meaningless tasks - rearranging Lestrade’s books, for one, so that they are organized first by genre and then by author.

They speak little on these nights. Lestrade will make dinner if he has the energy and a drink if he does not. He’ll stretch out on the sofa with half a mind on the television and the rest on the work while Sherlock sits in a chair and pecks away at Lestrade’s laptop because Lord knows he can’t be bothered to bring his own.

Lestrade finds he doesn’t mind as much as he probably should, and tries very hard not to think about how many of these late-night visits might have occurred during those three years.

  


* * *

  


It’s not easy, this resurrection business. Lestrade doesn’t know this from experience, of course, but he keeps up with Sherlock’s blog, as he had in the years before the fall, and finds it updating at a painstakingly-slow pace.

“Three years’ worth of lies don’t come undone overnight,” John tells Lestrade darkly one evening. “His name’s been cleared, but it’s been dragged through the dirt for so long that no one remembers he’s the same man they used to call on for help.” John takes a drink from his mug, frowns, and says, “Well, almost the same.”

“He’s not getting cases.”

John shakes his head. “Not really. He’s had a few loyal clients who never lost faith and a few new ones who come around out of some perverse form of curiosity, but nothing that holds his attention for very long.”

“Maybe it’ll get better with time,” Lestrade says, though even he doesn’t believe that. “You know how people are. Eventually they forget.”

John shakes his head. “You don’t come back from this, Greg. You just _don’t_.”

  


* * *

  


The next time they’re at a crime scene, tensions are very slowly escalating. It’s so subtle, in fact, that Lestrade doesn’t notice the slide until it’s almost too late; until Donovan is thirty seconds away from slapping Sherlock and Anderson looks like he’s either going to pop a blood vessel or quit on the spot. Lestrade can’t afford to have any of that happen right now and so he springs forward, pulling Sherlock away and nodding at his team, telling them silently to hang in there.

_ “Sherlock.” _

It’s Sherlock’s wrist he grabs - old habit, ancient, Before John - and, reflexively, he swipes his thumb across the underside. It may be an old gesture, but it works; Sherlock slams to a halt mid-word and his jaw clicks shut. His pulse flutters under Lestrade’s touch and oh, _that_ was a mistake. Lestrade doesn’t let go until Sherlock’s nod, but then he drops Sherlock’s wrist as though he had been burned. Sherlock whirls off, slightly calmer, while Lestrade hopes that his trembling legs will hold his weight long enough for them to wrap up at the scene.

The memory of the pulse is still thudding against his fingers as he pulls out his mobile and keys in a query while Sherlock kneels before the corpse.

_ Forty-two million. _

The average human’s heart beats forty-two million times a year. That’s one hundred and twenty-six million in three.

One hundred twenty-six million beats spent believing the man in front of him dead.

One hundred twenty-six million pulses of pain, white-hot and piercing.

One hundred twenty-six million wasted moments.

  


* * *

  
They’re in the hallway outside the morgue, waiting for Molly Hooper. Sherlock is smoking and Lestrade is biting the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something. He’s on edge today, more irritable than is normal for him, though he has sense enough still to recognize it. Every little noise makes him grit his teeth, and Sherlock’s restless tapping on his cigarette grates on Lestrade’s quickly-fraying nerves.

_ “Enough,” _ he growls eventually, and grabs the cigarette from Sherlock’s fingers. He grinds it out on the floor with the heel of his shoe and then stands there, hands buried deep in the pockets of his trousers and shoulders hunched as though he’s warding off a chill. Defense mechanism. Shrinking away from the thoughts swirling around his brain as though he could physically escape them.

Last time he was in the morgue with Sherlock, he’d been identifying the other man’s body.

Sherlock stares at him wordlessly, and then lights another cigarette.

  


* * *

  
Sherlock takes off after a suspect one day without waiting even for John, and receives a knife in his side for his troubles. The suspect has long vanished by the time they catch up with Sherlock, and the moment that Lestrade sees red blooming across the front of Sherlock’s shirt, all thought of the possible murderer vanishes from his mind.

The wound is far from fatal, but the pain of it sends Sherlock to his knees. He is laid out flat by Lestrade’s quick hands, because fatal or no they still need to stop the bleeding.

“What the bloody hell were you thinking?” Lestrade bellows at him, pressing his hands against the wound while Donovan calls and ambulance and Anderson dashes off to find John.

And Sherlock laughs.

He throws his head back with the force of it, as though he’s just realized something _spectacular_ , and it’s the first genuine laugh Lestrade has heard from him since his return. It stuns Lestrade into silence, so gleeful is the sound.

Sherlock continues to laugh until the blood loss makes him lose consciousness.

  


* * *

  
_  
Sherlock with you?   
_

_ No. Why? _

_ He took off about an hour ago. Left his mobile behind. _

_ Have a row? _

_ Yeah. _

_ What about? _

_ What do you think? _

Lestrade nods to himself and pockets his mobile. The one thing John and Sherlock haven’t spoken about since Sherlock’s return, and Lestrade knows this due to too many nights spent in pubs with a man who doesn’t know what to make of his best friend coming back to life. The two flatmates dance around the subject, making veiled references to the three years if they have to make them at all, but to the outside world they pretend that one day flowed seamlessly into the next - that Sherlock stepped off the roof of St Bart’s one moment and into Lestrade’s office the next.

Lestrade finds Sherlock at the grave.

“Only you, Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade says with a heavy sigh, “would come and visit your _own_ grave.”

“You come here,” Sherlock counters.

Of course he would know that. Lestrade shoves his hands in his pockets and doesn’t bother denying it. It has taken him the better part of the afternoon to track Sherlock down. Loath as he is to admit it, he wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for a helpful text from Mycroft Holmes.

“There must be a reason for it,” Sherlock insists when Lestrade continues to say nothing. “You find it helpful - useful - or else you wouldn’t keep returning.”

“One man’s comfort can just as easily be another’s pain,” Lestrade tells him softly. “I don’t know what you’re looking for, but whatever it is... I don’t think you’re gonna find it here.”

“You find it comforting.” Sherlock kicks at a loose stone and takes a pull on the cigarette. “Coming here. Visiting... me.”

“And is that what you need?”

“I need to understand.”

“And so do I.”

Sherlock turns to look at him, arching an eyebrow.

“I’ve never had someone I -” Lestrade pauses, considering his words, and continues with, “someone I _know_ come back from the dead. S’not exactly something I have experience with. Been... a bit hard to comprehend, is all.”

In truth, he’s bristling faintly at this intrusion. This is Sherlock’s grave, yes, but it’s not _for_ him. It never has been. It’s for John and Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper; for Mycroft and Angelo and Lestrade, and for anyone else Sherlock might have left behind. This is a space for their pain, not another puzzle for Sherlock to work out. Lestrade cannot help but feel that Sherlock’s presence is a violation, and tries to keep his reprimand subtle.

Sherlock does not belong here.

But then Sherlock blows a stream of smoke out the side of his mouth and says, quietly, “And I’ve never had anyone to leave behind before.”

He tosses the cigarette onto his plot while a stunned Lestrade looks on, and the damp earth quickly snuffs it out.

“Here’s to learning curves,” he mutters, and is gone before Lestrade can form a response.

  


* * *

  
_  
You don’t let John see you hurting.   
_

_ Busy. -SH _

_ You should, though. _  
_ It’d help. _  
_ Those years were hard on him. _

_ I’m aware. -SH _

_ I didn’t mean they were hard on  _ only _him._  
 _ But I mean it. Might help you both. _  
_ Or, hell. Talk to me. _

_ I don’t need you to be my father confessor. -SH _

_ Then why let me see what you won’t show John? _

  


* * *

  
Very little changes after that. Sherlock still breaks into Lestrade’s flat; Lestrade still brings Sherlock cases; John still stares at Sherlock as though he can’t quite believe the man is there. And still, none of them mentions what Lestrade has come to think of as the Hiatus. 

_ Hiatus. Any interruption or break in the continuity of a work.  _

_ Sherlock, interrupted.  _

Discussing Sherlock’s injuries is one thing. But Sherlock still doesn’t speak about what led to such wounds; his friends won’t ask, because it’s easier to pretend that they were acquired while Sherlock was in London, with them, rather than abroad and alone. Sherlock permits them this fantasy.

Perhaps he even starts to believe it himself. 

  


* * *

  
It’s raining the next time Lestrade is forced to call Sherlock in on a case.

The spray is gentle but cold, and had washed away most of the viable evidence before they even got the call about the body. They’ve since collected what was left behind and are now waiting on Sherlock, who is pacing on the far end of the roped-off scene, bent nearly double as he examines the ground. There’s not much they can do until he finishes, and so Lestrade takes up a position opposite, watching Sherlock work.

His fingers twitch inside the pockets of his jacket and he curls them into fists, fighting the urge to reach for the unopened packet of cigarettes he has taken to keeping on his person at all times. Sherlock has been particularly irritable today, hanging up on Lestrade twice that morning before finally deigning to come out to the crime scene. Since arriving he’s come dangerously close to hitting Anderson, called Lestrade an imbecile, and had growled at John to, “Take your infernal _coddling_ and stuff it; I’m not a _child_ ,” when the doctor suggested that maybe he should take a break.

The last one took all of them by surprise, sans John, who had sighed and looked as though it was not an uncommon occurrence as of late. He occupies himself now by chatting with Donovan, but then someone calls her mobile and John turns his attention to Lestrade.

“Picked a hell of a time to give up smoking,” Lestrade mutters wearily by way of greeting as John joins him.

“Good thing you’ve still got the drink then, isn’t it?” John says, and the force of the words haven’t quite hit Lestrade before he’s saying, “Jesus, I - _fuck_ , Greg, I didn’t mean that. I don’t even - _Christ._ ”

“It’s fine,” Lestrade says, waving off the apology quickly even as his breath stops in his chest. That’s one number he won’t allow himself to think about, because while it’s hardly Sherlock’s fault that Lestrade fell back on an ancient vice during those three years, it’s also too easy for Lestrade to assign the blame to him.

How many drinks had he had in those three years?

How many of them might have been avoided had Sherlock not fallen?

The less Lestrade dwells on it, the better it is for all involved. He clears his throat and nods at Sherlock. “Been rough, I take it?”

John snorts. “Hasn’t been easy.”

“And how’s he been holding up?” Lestrade asks, lowering his voice reflexively even though Sherlock is clear on the other side of the crime scene.

_ You can’t honestly believe I came through those years unscathed. _

He feels John shift his weight from one foot to the other. He says at length, “As well as can be expected, I suppose. We don’t talk about it, so I can’t really say. But he has nightmares that he won’t admit it to me. Some of his injuries didn’t heal properly, and they still bother him. And he hasn’t touched the violin since he’s been back.”

John takes a breath, and adds, “And he can’t stand being alone.”

“Sorry?”

“Never thought you’d hear that one, did you?” John offers a wry smile that quickly vanishes. “Took me a while to notice it, but he doesn’t like being alone anymore. He goes out if I’m at work; walks the streets or frequents Angelo’s. I’d wager he’s turned up on your doorstep already, hasn’t he? Follows me around when I’m at home, moving his work to the living room instead of the kitchen. That sort of thing. Kips on the sofa most nights, if he sleeps at all.”

Lestrade doesn’t know what to say to that - doesn’t know what to make of it, either - but it seems to warrant some sort of response and so he murmurs, “Christ.”

John shakes his head. “Those first few days after he came back... I kept thinking that I would turn around or wake up and he’d be gone. Vanished. And I think... I think _he’s_ afraid of the same thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think,” John says slowly, “he’s afraid that if no one’s watching, he’ll disappear again. And he won’t be able to find his way back.”

  


* * *

  
It’s two in the morning, and someone is pounding erratically on Lestrade’s door. When Lestrade finally answers it, Sherlock all-but falls over the threshold.

“Ah, good, Lestrade,” he says, clapping him on the shoulder. His face is a disaster zone. His left eye will be black by morning and he’s bleeding from a split lip. Other, smaller marks litter his face and hands.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade blurts before he can help it. Sherlock pulls at his coat, swaying slightly as he fights his way out of the garment and tosses it on the floor. He then stumbles over to the sofa and collapses on it. “Are you _drunk_?”

“Hardly.” Sherlock toes off his shoes and kicks them over the arm of the sofa. “Wrenched my knee. Your flat is closer than Baker Street.”

Lestrade doesn’t even bother to ask why he didn’t grab a cab. Or, for that matter, why he didn’t even attempt to break in. “What the hell happened to your face?”

“That’s hardly polite, Detective Inspector.”

_ “Sherlock.” _

“Oh, do shut up, Lestrade, and let me sleep,” Sherlock snaps, and it’s the first time Lestrade can ever recall him _wanting_ to rest. He throws an arm over his eyes and adds, “Or make yourself useful and find me a pillow. This sofa is atrociously uncomfortable.”

“John’s out, isn’t he?” Lestrade asks suddenly, realization dawning.

Sherlock doesn’t move, nor does he give any sign that he’s heard. It’s answer enough for Lestrade, who sighs.

“Right, yeah, I’ll go find you a pillow. And something for your knee.”

 

Sherlock is still asleep when Lestrade rises a few hours later, and so he goes about his morning routine as quietly as he can manage. Experience, from the years before Baker Street, has taught him that it isn’t like Sherlock to sleep much past dawn, if he does at all; it’s rarer still for him, as a light sleeper, to not stir at the sound of Lestrade making coffee.

But Sherlock doesn’t wake until an hour later, when what Lestrade can only assume is a nightmare nearly sends him sprawling to the floor. He catches himself in time and sits there for a moment, chest heaving, blinking rapidly at his unfamiliar surroundings. Eventually, Sherlock scrubs a hand through his hair and gives a sigh that’s half-relief, half-understanding, as he recognizes the room.

Lestrade averts his gaze, returning to his emails in order to give Sherlock what privacy he can. He joins Lestrade in the kitchen once he’s regained his equilibrium, and Lestrade chooses to say nothing about what he witnessed. Sherlock already knows that he saw, and wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment.

“You should have those looked at,” Lestrade says after some moments of persistent silence. Sherlock has settled into a chair across from him. He cradles his coffee-black-two-sugars in both hands and has been staring absently at a point on the wall just over Lestrade’s shoulder. Lestrade wonders if it’s the nightmare he’s thinking about.

“No, I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it,” Lestrade counters. The skin around Sherlock’s left eye is red and slowly swelling; the cut on his lip is caked with dried blood; his limp is noticeable. “Those must be smarting.”

“They are,” Sherlock agrees, and he makes it almost sound like an accomplishment. There is a pause while he drinks from his mug, and then he says, “You got old.”

“You’re just noticing this now?” Lestrade snorts, the odd segue giving him only the barest of pauses. He’d gone completely grey in the years of Sherlock’s absence, and the lines around his mouth and eyes have deepened so that they are nearly furrows, or so it appears to him. An old football injury gives him trouble on rainy days; the three flights of stairs up to his flat leave him winded more often than not.

He reaches across the table and fingers a strand of Sherlock’s hair; it glints silver in the harsh artificial light. He counts a dozen or so similar strands in the otherwise-dark mop. A dozen grey hairs in three years; a dozen threads that spoke to cold nights and endless days and fresh blood on Sherlock’s hands. “But so did you, lad.”

Sherlock reaches up to pull the probing fingers from his head, and Lestrade’s fingers inadvertently curl around Sherlock’s hand. Sense memory; slender fingers slipping between his own, holding on. But her hands were cool to the touch where Sherlock’s are warm from the coffee; her flesh had been silken where Sherlock’s is rough with callouses.  

And then the corner of Sherlock’s mouth gives a valiant tug, as though he’s trying to smile but can’t quite coordinate the proper muscle movements.

“The Greeks had a word,” he says, releasing Lestrade’s hand and producing a packet of cigarettes from the depths of his pajamas. “ _Utopos_. Quite literally, it means _no place_.”

Sherlock lights the cigarette and smokes half of it before continuing. “We get our _utopia_ from the homophone _eutopia -_ also derived from the Greek. _The good place_.”

He blows a stream of smoke out of the side of his mouth and fixes Lestrade with a lop-sided smile that’s sad and amused all at once.

“So which is it, this _utopia_?” he muses aloud. “The good place... or a place that doesn’t exist?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some years ago, in one of my English classes, the conversation came around to _utopia_ and its double meaning - something I've found fascinating ever since. For those who are interested,[ the internet](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Utopia) puts it far better than I ever could. And, as I discovered last week, _Mad Men_ actually puts a [pretty good spin](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eO-dsETUy6I) on it as well.


	2. Part Two

Lestrade blinks, and it is Christmas.  
  
Sherlock has been back for six months - one-sixth of the time that he was away, which is not an insignificant amount. And yet it still surprises Lestrade when he looks up to see the lanky man standing in the doorway to his office or looming over his crime scenes. It is stranger still here at Baker Street, where they’ve gathered for the holiday. Lestrade has long grown used to thinking of it as John’s flat. Seeing Sherlock here is disconcerting. It is as though he is, at best, a guest to this annual affair. At worst, he is an intruder upon their small group, lingering on the fringe, observing a ritual he has no part in. But Lestrade doesn’t like that last thought and does his best to ignore it.  
  
“It was only supposed to be three months,” Sherlock tells him at one point. His voice is hollow when he speaks, and his eyes are watching the remains of the drink in his glass. They’re standing by the mantel, Lestrade facing Sherlock, nursing his own drink despite Sherlock’s faintly-disapproving look. Behind him, he hears John and Molly dancing wildly to the jaunty Christmas music while Mrs. Hudson claps along in delight.  
  
“What happened?”  
  
Sherlock shakes his head, lifting his gaze to look at John over Lestrade’s shoulder. His face is pained, and his next words come from a continent away. “And then it was six months and I was in some... _damn_ hovel in Switzerland and all I could think about was that first Christmas we had here. I hadn’t... I hadn’t counted on being gone for one.”  
  
Lestrade doesn’t ask about the two other Christmases that would pass before Sherlock could come home, in case they’re worse than the images his mind conjures up. He thinks of Sherlock, hair chopped and dyed, nursing a newly-acquired wound and no closer to clearing his name or bringing down Moriarty’s network. He thinks of Sherlock, coated in grime and exhausted, knowing that there was no one to wonder at his absence because they already thought him gone.  
  
He thinks of Sherlock, alone, for three Christmases.  
  
“C’mon,” he says gruffly, taking the glass from Sherlock’s hand. “Let’s get you another drink.”  
  
“Oh, predictable,” Sherlock mutters under his breath, but he follows Lestrade into the kitchen all the same.  
  


  


* * *

Sherlock is sporting a bruise just under his right eye as he strolls into Lestrade’s office one morning, and the sight of it momentarily distracts Lestrade from the task at hand.

“Boxing,” John explains, catching the look on the other man’s face.

“Boxing,” Lestrade repeats in disbelief.

“Really, Lestrade, there’s no need to parrot John. You heard him perfectly well the first time,” Sherlock scolds as he flips through the file Lestrade has handed him. John takes a seat and sighs. He looks worn, each line in his face etched with weariness. 

“He goes out at all hours,” John mutters, glaring pointedly at Sherlock, who is ignoring him. “Comes back looking like death. His injuries get worse each time. Thought you were supposed to improve with practice, Sherlock.”

Sherlock spares John half a glance before closing the file and returning it to Lestrade. He says brusquely, “You’ll find that the aunt’s your murderer, but the sister dumped the body.”

He leaves the office with his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, which he doesn’t use to add a dramatic flair to his exit. John gets to his feet with a groan and offers Lestrade his hand in goodbye.

“Thought for sure that one would get a rise out of him; didn’t even blink,” he mutters as they shake. “Well... see you Friday, yeah?”

  


* * *

John and Lestrade meet for a pint every few weeks, a custom that’s a holdover from Sherlock’s long years of absence. Tonight, they’ve ended up at Angelo’s, and it’s well past closing time. But the conversation has come around, as it always does, to Sherlock, and since they’ve drawn Angelo in as well, Lestrade doesn’t feel too guilty about lingering.

“No, no, no,” Angelo is saying, his accent growing thick as he lowers his voice, though there’s no one else in the restaurant. John and Lestrade instinctively lean closer to him. “Dying was the _easy_ part. Now he must figure out how to _live_ again.”

“I don’t understand,” John says, and neither does Lestrade.

“He was on the run. For _three years_.” Angelo is emphatic; he begins to gesture. “Imagine what that does to a man, alone in conditions such as that. Not knowing where he will next find shelter, or food. Not knowing if the next breath will be his last. Not knowing if he will ever be able to come home again. Not knowing if his efforts will pay off, or if his friends are safe. Did you know,” and here Angelo speaks softer still, so that Lestrade and John are mere centimeters from one another as they lean in to hear, “that when he threw himself from that roof, there was not even a guarantee that he would live? Their plan was not foolproof. And yet he did it anyway.”

There is a hiss of breath as John and Lestrade process this information. The lighting in the restaurant is dim, but Lestrade can still see that John has gone deathly white; he figures he appears no better.

“He must learn how to live this life again,” Angelo insists. “And he doesn’t know how.”

“He’s not the only one,” John mutters shakily. He reaches for his wallet and says, “‘Bout time to call it a night, I think.”

Lestrade couldn’t agree more.

  


* * *

It has been a year.

One-third the length of Sherlock’s death.

Time has done little to dim in Lestrade’s memory those years of absence. If anything, they are thrown into sharper relief as the days march on - perhaps because the Sherlock who has returned to them is not the one who left.

But then, Lestrade and John are not the same men Sherlock left behind, either.

“Where did you get this one?” Lestrade asks, and reaches out to finger a thin scar that curves around the sharp bone of Sherlock’s wrist. They’re sitting on the roof of his building, watching pink-tinged wisps of cloud skirt across the evening sky. Sherlock has lit a cigarette, as is his habit now when he is idle for more than five minutes at a time.

“Romania.”

Some have faded to white with age and others are raw, as angry as the day they were made. Sixteen scars that cut a swath across Sherlock’s porcelain flesh; plow marks on a smooth field. Lestrade has only ever counted seven or so on his arms. Doubtless the others are concealed beneath Sherlock’s pristine shirt, open tonight down to the fourth button because the air is too still and the earlier sun was blistering.

Sherlock’s rougher around the edges now, Lestrade thinks. Smudged. His clothing is still immaculate but the presentation is careless. He leaves his hair tumbled and his nails dirty and not once has he tugged up the collar of his coat to appear more imposing.

Lestrade doesn’t realize he’s still absent-mindedly rubbing the roughened patch of skin until Sherlock says, “Show me yours.”

“I haven’t any,” Lestrade says, startled, and drops Sherlock’s wrist abruptly. Sherlock doesn’t look at him, but his mouth twists briefly into a smug smile before he turns back to his cigarette. It’s the kind of smile that indicates he’s just made a point, even if his audience hasn’t realized it yet.

“Wrong,” he drawls after a moment. “You just can’t see them.”

  


* * *

One day, Lestrade manages to leave the Yard at an hour most people would still consider decent and heads for home. He instead ends up in a pub, a small establishment just down the street from his flat that’s still mostly empty at this time of the evening. He chats with the bartender between pints and tries to forget that today’s crime scene was one of the more gruesome ones he’s worked in a long time. 

Lestrade then sets out for home for the second time that night, and finds himself outside 221B.

Several minutes of knocking bring Sherlock to the door, and he scowls heavily at Lestrade.

“ _Busy_ , Lestrade. I haven’t got time for your inane chatter.”

“Yeah, well, too damn bad,” Lestrade says, pushing Sherlock out of the way and stepping into the flat. There’s an open book that’s been set face-down on the seat of Sherlock’s customary chair and an ashtray sitting on the arm, the remains of a cigarette smoldering inside. Sherlock shuts the door and comes to stand in front of Lestrade, placing a hand on his chest to prevent him from walking further into the flat. He narrows his eyes.

“Are you drunk?”

“Jus’ a bit,” Lestrade admits. “Took you long enough to notice; thought you were supposed to be good at this stuff.”

Sherlock shifts his weight from one foot to the other, as though he was about to step in one direction and then changed his mind. He settles for turning around and going back over to his chair. He picks up the book and returns to his reading. Lestrade sits on the sofa to take off his shoes and then realizes that he can’t be bothered to get up again.

“How many?” Sherlock asks without looking up.

“You tell me, genius,” Lestrade mutters. Sherlock’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second but his gaze doesn’t leave his page. Lestrade immediately regrets his words and says, quieter, “I’m assumin’ you don’t mean drinks. Three. Children.”

“So I gathered.” Sherlock turns a page. “You do realize there was nothing you could have done. They were dead by the time you arrived; that’s _why_ you were called.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade mutters, thinking that if he were sober he would find this conversation very strange. As it is, it’s only mildly odd.

Sherlock nods to himself. But then he pauses in his reading, eyes flicking to a spot on the far wall as a thought occurs to him.

“I am... sorry,” he says at last, turning to look at Lestrade. “I know that these cases... affect you, even if I can’t quite understand why.”

And then, before Lestrade’s stunned mind can wrap itself around those words, let alone form a reply, the mask has slid back into place and Sherlock’s returned to his reading.

“Neither John nor I will be requiring the sofa tonight,” Sherlock is saying briskly when Lestrade’s brain starts processing information again. “You should make use of it.”

Lestrade waves his concern away. “Nah, I’d pref’r my own place.”

“And I prefer my Detective Inspectors in one piece.” Sherlock’s voice is soft as he says this, and Lestrade isn’t sure if he’s imagining the hint of disappointment that colours his words. “That wasn’t a suggestion, Lestrade.”

Lestrade snorts and shakes his head sadly. “Dunno how I’d be able t’sleep anyway, at this point. Wasn’t pretty, lad.”

“I expect not. You should make the attempt, however.”

Lestrade rubs the back of his neck wearily and mutters, “Didn’t realize you were so invested in my well-being.”

Sherlock closes his book and sets it aside.

“Neither did I,” he says mildly.

When Lestrade wakes the next morning, it doesn’t take long for him to recall the events leading up to his staying at 221B.

What’s less clear is why, exactly, there lingers in his mind the sensation of being pressed against another on the sofa, hips to thighs to knees; of a warm thumb sweeping across the inside of his wrist in gentle, calming strokes; of a voice saying, _Sleep, Lestrade. It’ll be better in the morning._

  


* * *

It’s a cold morning in June, and Sherlock is standing on the edge of a building.

Lestrade fights nausea as he watches the scene play out; John, standing next to him, is muttering a string of curses under his breath. Sherlock’s gone after a suspect on his own, again, and the two men are grappling with one another, each only a step away from a nine-story drop. Lestrade has people on their way up to the roof and teams are assembling below should the worst come to pass.

And then there is a crack, a shout, and the two men disappear out of sight, tumbling backwards onto the roof. A moment later, Sherlock stands. The other man does not.

Lestrade remembers to breathe again.

He sends John home as soon as the suspect has been apprehended and brought down from the roof, because the younger man is white as a sheet and his left hand is steady as a rock. Lestrade then orders Sherlock back to the Yard and, once they’re secured inside his office, turns on him.

“That was a _bloody_ stupid thing you did today,” he growls, his voice tremulous with barely-controlled fury.

“It was, wasn’t it?” Sherlock says, flashing a grin that sends Lestrade’s skin crawling.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Lestrade goes on. He can feel his hands shaking in fury. “After all John - after all _we’ve_ been through, pulling a stunt like that... Did you even _once_ consider what that would do to him? To us? Not to mention what it would do to you!”

“Don’t be absurd, Lestrade, it felt _wondrous_.”

Lestrade gapes. “You almost got killed!”

“I know,” Sherlock says, his eyes bright with glee.

And that’s when Lestrade comes to the decision he didn’t even know he had been considering. “You’re done.”

“Pardon?”

“You’re done,” Lestrade repeats, and _oh_ , this is a terrible idea. He knows what Sherlock bored is like; he knows what will happen, and he winces at the thought of inflicting that on John. But this cannot go on. “ _I’m_ done. I’m taking you off the case, and I’m not going to be calling on you for crimes anymore.”

His voice is surprisingly steady as he says this. Sherlock’s eyes narrow.

“What do you mean,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “ _done?_ ”

Lestrade relishes being able to throw Sherlock’s oft-repeated lament back in his face. “I’ll not repeat myself; you heard me perfectly well the first time.”

“You’re not making any sense, Lestrade, as usual.”

“We thought you were _dead_ ,” Lestrade growls.

“That was rather the _point_ , wasn’t it?” Sherlock snaps.

Lestrade plunges on, heedless of Sherlock’s words. “And then to go and put yourself in that situation again was _awful_ , Sherlock. John watched you jump the first time! He thought he would have to see it again today, only that’s a fall you’d never have come back from.”

“There’s no need to be overly dramatic about it. I was perfectly in control of the situation.”

“No, you weren’t,” Lestrade says softly. “And I think that’s exactly what you wanted.”

Sherlock lifts his chin; locks his jaw defensively. “What are you trying to say?”

“Angelo said something to us once,” Lestrade muses, half to himself. “Said - said that you were alive, yes, but you weren’t sure how to _live_ again. Didn’t make any sense to me at the time, but now... now I see his point. That’s what this has all been about, hasn’t it? These stupid risks. You only feel alive now when you’re just on the brink of death, is that it?”

“And who are you to judge me?” Sherlock hisses. His voice is shot through with steel, and the glare he levels on Lestrade would make lesser men cower. “You, the man trying to drink himself into an early grave because he’s too _weak_ to handle the fact that the world didn’t stop simply because he thought it should have. You’re _pathetic_.”

Lestrade slams his fist into Sherlock’s face, relishing the sharp _crack_ and the way Sherlock reels. He stumbles, catching himself on the door frame, and when he turns back to Lestrade his eyes are blazing.

“Fuck off,” Lestrade growls before he can say anything. “ _You don’t know what it was like._ ”

“Neither do you, you _son of a bitch_ ,” Sherlock bellows, and because in ten years Lestrade has never once heard Sherlock curse, this is the first astonishing thing - and then Sherlock grabs Lestrade by the lapels and kisses him, which is the second. How does one measure astonishing things, Lestrade thinks stupidly as his lips part under Sherlock’s and he draws air from the other man’s lungs, warm and coffee-bitter and so _alive_.

“I didn’t _ask_ for this, Lestrade,” Sherlock whispers furiously, breaking the kiss. He’s barely drawn away, standing so close still that his breath ghosts across Lestrade’s face. “I am so _fucking tired_ of apologizing for having saved your life.” 

_It is a game, Lestrade, and not one I’m willing to play.  
_

The words come to him from a lifetime ago, the night of Sherlock’s arrest. The night before his fall. His suicide. 

Though it wasn’t really a suicide, was it, Lestrade realizes. It might as well have been murder, Moriarty’s ghost all-but pushing Sherlock over the edge as he toyed with the lives of his three closest friends.

“You’d have _died_ otherwise, do you understand that?” Sherlock goes on vehemently, giving him a small shake. “My life for yours. For John’s and Mrs. Hudson’s. I _had to_ leave you behind.”

There’s a tremor in that last word, and Sherlock’s eyes are wide; imploring, though who he’s trying to convince, Lestrade isn’t exactly sure. 

_Dying is easy_. But there’s more to it than that, because what Sherlock won’t say - perhaps what he _can’t_ bring himself to say aloud - is that he went down with his reputation. His work, destroyed while he was forced to watch, powerless to stop Moriarty’s plan once it had been set in motion. He had shouldered the burden of disgrace for three years so that his friends could live. He had been murdered twice over, losing his life and his work in an instant, and it was all for them.

Lestrade closes the distance between them this time, cursing Moriarty with every breath he draws from Sherlock’s lungs. It’s three seconds before they break apart, and when Sherlock pulls back the first thing Lestrade thinks is, _How many times could this have happened during those three years?_

He knows this one, the number having stuck to the inside of his brain when he read it months ago and refusing to let him go.

Thirty-one million. Thirty-one million seconds in a year. Ninety-three million in three. This calculation is simple; painful.

Thirty-one million kisses. Well, for the ambitious.

Sherlock is nothing if not ambitious.

And then he wonders, Could _this_ _have happened during those three years?_

_Ah,_ Sherlock’s voice sings in his ear, _now you’re asking the_ right _questions._

“Sorry ‘bout your... er, nose,” Lestrade stammers as this realization blooms across his mind. Sherlock is still holding him by the front of his shirt, and his own hands have somehow found their way to Sherlock’s waist.

“Stop talking,” Sherlock orders breathlessly, and kisses him again.

 

 

From the front door, it’s eight steps to Lestrade’s bedroom.

It might as well have been a mile.

But once inside, Lestrade strips Sherlock down to his pants and pushes him onto the bed, removing the wandering hands from his chest and pressing them into the mattress until Sherlock lies still beneath him; acquiescing.

He presses his lips first to the scar on Sherlock’s wrist while his fingers trace one that crawls up his forearm, jagged as a shattered piece of glass. He moves down, marking one in the bend of Sherlock’s knee and a fourth on his ankle. There’s another on his hip and Lestrade maps that one, too, pressing searing kisses along the angry line before soothing it with a gentle tongue. Sherlock is silent throughout it all, eyes fixed on the ceiling while his fingers slide through Lestrade’s hair. They tighten and then still, however, when Lestrade reaches scar number six, and at seven he moves his hands to Lestrade’s shoulders, stopping him.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks in an undertone, his voice cracking around the final word. “Lestrade -”

Lestrade hushes him, takes the hands from his shoulders and kisses the marble-cold fingers. “Let me. Please.”

Sherlock stares at him for a long moment; in the darkness, his expression is even more of a mystery to Lestrade than it normally is in the daylight. But then he gives a jerky nod, and even sighs quietly as Lestrade brushes his lips along scar number eight.

Lestrade imagines how each wound might have been made. He’s worked the streets long enough to recognize that four are from knives and one was probably due to barbed wire. The marks on Sherlock’s wrists might have been from restraints - had he been captured at one point? - and Lestrade kisses them with that thought in mind, laying a new memory on top of the old, brutal one. Two are bullet wounds. The rest are mysteries but Lestrade assigns them stories anyway, because each one brought Sherlock one step closer to here and now.

And as Lestrade reaches scar sixteen - a patch of knotted flesh just below Sherlock’s clavicle - the numbers he’s been gathering all this time slowly start to click into place. Sherlock lets out a shaky breath, and Lestrade moves his lips to Sherlock’s brow. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and the rest of it - _for everything you had to go through_ \- sticks in his throat. Beneath him, Sherlock shudders with the effort it’s taking him to remain composed. 

“Don’t be,” Sherlock manages after a moment, his voice raw, and Lestrade wonders if he realizes just how true those words are - because this could have happened no other way, and at no other time. Because Lestrade had to lose the world - had to lose _his_ world - before he could gain it all back. Because Sherlock needed to be torn apart before he could be made whole.

Because every rise is preceded by a fall, and they have had theirs.

  


* * *

One morning, Lestrade rises before Sherlock. The kitchen in 221B is empty as he sets about making coffee, but not for long. John, showered but bleary-eyed, wanders in at half-past six, and it’s a split-second before he realizes that Lestrade is not Sherlock. 

“Oh, hello,” he says. “Have a case come in last night?”

“Don’t be daft, John.” Sherlock comes into the kitchen wearing only his nightclothes and the deep blue dressing gown. He sprawls in a chair and says, “He’s taken the time to shower and is wearing fresh clothing. Clearly he isn’t in a rush to get down to the Yard and his visit last night was planned. Coffee, Lestrade. Black, two sugars.”

John rolls his eyes at Lestrade when Sherlock returns to the bedroom in search of his mobile and confides, “He thinks he can shock me. Daft git. As if it wasn’t obvious all along that this would happen.”

“Er -” Lestrade says as he sets about preparing Sherlock’s coffee. 

“He seems better,” John goes on, when it’s apparent that Lestrade is at a loss for words. “Is he?”

“Hard to tell,” Lestrade admits with a shrug. “You know him better, anyway.”

“Not really. Just differently.” John takes a sip of tea.

“And what about you?” Lestrade ventures, stirring his own coffee absently. “Better?”

John smiles in response and holds up his mug. Lestrade touches his own to John’s, and they then drink in a companionable silence that is broken only by Sherlock’s return.

 

“Did you ever doubt me?” Sherlock asks once John has left for work, leaning back in his chair until only two legs hold his weight. They are still in the kitchen, Sherlock seated at the table while Lestrade leans against the counter. Sherlock’s hair has grown out over the past year and is mussed now from sleep. It falls across his forehead in disarray, and he stares at Lestrade intently through the strands that obscure his eyes.

“No.” Lestrade, long-used to Sherlock’s segues, is able to answer immediately. He turns his back on Sherlock and sets about fixing himself another cup of coffee. He stirs the drink, three strokes counter-clockwise, and then asks, “Were you angry with me for arresting you?”

He can feel Sherlock still for a moment, but Lestrade’s not asking about the Hiatus - just the Before. Safe territory. Sherlock relaxes once he realizes this and says, “You chose the work. I would have done the same.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

He can feel Sherlock’s smirk. “Yes. But only for three minutes.”

“Why three?”

The silence that follows is heavy. He’s sorry he asked the question, and is trying to figure out how to change the subject when Sherlock finally answers.

“Because I saw your face,” he says. Lestrade hears the creak of the chair rocking, tipping forward and then back again. “Just before we ran. You looked...”

_Lost_ , Lestrade thinks, remembering the moment when Sherlock pulled the gun; remembering dropping his face into his hands, thinking desperately, _No, no, I can’t help you if you run._

Turns out, he couldn’t have helped Sherlock anyway. 

“Devastated,” Sherlock finishes finally. He gets up from his chair; comes to stand behind Lestrade. “You looked devastated.”

“And?” Lestrade ventures cautiously as a long arm wraps around his waist and pulls him close.

“And I never wanted - _want_ \- to see that look on your face again.”

Strong fingertips press against his jaw, turning his head until Sherlock can capture his lips. Lestrade kisses back with all that he has.

  



	3. Epilogue

Lestrade still goes to the cemetery.

He never runs into Sherlock there, and by all appearances the grave receives no other visitors. And so when he gets a phone call from John before dawn one morning -  _Greg, he’s gone off again, and it’s bad this time_ \- Lestrade knows exactly where to go.

He finds Sherlock on the roof of Barts.

The sun is fast approaching, and ahead of its first faint beams the sky is deepest blue. Lestrade picks out Sherlock’s silhouette easily as he steps out onto the roof, and when his eyes have properly adjusted to the darkness he sees that Sherlock is standing by the far edge, his back to Lestrade.

He doesn’t bother to mask his approach, and at the sound of his footsteps Sherlock glances over his shoulder.

“What gave me away?”

“Nothing,” Lestrade tells him. He stops when they are shoulder-to-shoulder, gazing out at the darkened buildings.

“You knew to come here.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

_Because I know you now as well as I know myself. And I know where I go for answers._

“Do you come up here often?” Lestrade asks instead, and he can see then that Sherlock finally understands.

“No more frequently than you visit an empty grave,” he says.

Lestrade nods. “And have  _you_ found what you’re looking for?”

Sherlock says nothing. He takes a hesitant step toward the low wall that runs along the roof, and then another. When he comes to the edge he reaches out, places his hands over the spot where he stood, poised to drop, four years ago.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Sherlock says at last, and over the wind Lestrade struggles to make out his words. “Coming back. It’s - gone wrong. And I can’t understand -” He breaks off; draws a deep breath. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did it have to be  _me_ ?” Sherlock asks, and the quiet despair in his voice turns Lestrade cold. And then he bursts out, “And why can’t I - it’s been a fucking  _year_ , Lestrade! And I can’t stop  _thinking_ about it. Those years. What... what they did to you. To John. To  _me_ . I can’t - it just doesn’t  _stop_ .”

“Sherlock -”

“And why can’t it be like before?” Sherlock snaps before falling silent. He shakes his head, as though to physically remove the thoughts from his mind. For a moment, Lestrade can’t breathe with the indignity of it all. What Sherlock has gone through, he would wish on no one. 

And yet, it brought them here. 

“Bloody proud of you,” Lestrade says gruffly. “I never said so, but I am. John, too. And we forgave you ages ago.” He pauses. “So when are you gonna start forgiving yourself?”

The wind carries over Sherlock’s derisive snort. “What are you on about, Lestrade?”

Lestrade goes to the cemetery seeking solace. Sherlock comes here looking for absolution. Chasing ghosts, the both of them, seeking forgiveness everywhere except in one another, because sometime over the course of the past year each man has forgotten that learning to live again isn’t something he has to do alone; isn’t something he  _can_ do on his own. Sherlock proves that, brutally, with every risk that brings him to the brink of oblivion. Lestrade proves it, quietly, with every drink he pours.

But Sherlock is  _here_ , not resting beneath a cold headstone, and the forgiveness that he’s looking for had been given long ago.

It’s time to stop running.

Lestrade holds out a hand that Sherlock doesn’t see and says, “Come back with me.”

“Why should I?”

“‘Cause you risk your life on most days to prove to yourself that you’re still alive, and on other days because you’re punishing yourself for what happened. But that’s not the way to go about this. S’not gonna help, I promise you that. I think you know it already. So come back with me.”

Sherlock huffs. “And then what?”

“You’re gonna go back to Baker Street,” Lestrade says quietly, the scenes playing out across his mind like so many other scenarios before them, but these, at least, are pleasant. “You’ll go back to your crime scenes and your blogger and be brilliant, just as you always have been. Someday, you’ll stop blaming yourself for having to leave. You might even realise that none of this was your fault. It happened, and you can’t change that any more than you could have stopped it. And then, perhaps, you’ll tell us about it. Those years.”

“Lestrade -” Sherlock starts to protest.

“And I’ll go back to the Yard,” Lestrade continues, talking over him, “and the work and I’ll call you when I need you, just as I always do. And... and most days it’ll be just Sherlock-and-John. Just as it should be. But now and again there’ll be Sherlock-and-Lestrade, and that... that will be wonderful.”

Sherlock finally turns around. The wind is stronger here on the roof than it is on the ground and it whips his curls into his face, obscuring grey eyes made overly-bright by the breeze. He’s holding a cigarette between two fingers, but it’s gone untouched this entire time.

“I jumped,” he says.

“You were pushed,” Lestrade corrects. “Don’t let anyone tell you differently. He left you no choice.”

“There was always a choice,” Sherlock says bitterly. 

“Do you think for a moment you made the wrong one?”

“I’m not sure there was ever a  _right_ one to make.”

“So why did you choose the one that you did?”

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate with his response. “Because I don’t want any part of a world where you and John aren’t alive.”

Lestrade wants to reach out and cup his face; run his thumb along the lines that have formed at the corner of Sherlock’s eye, as though he could smooth away the pain. Instead, he says, in a voice thick with all the words he can’t voice, “Same here, lad.”

It isn’t eloquent or all that memorable, but Sherlock relaxes with all that passes between them unsaid. The tight, stiff line of his shoulders eases, and a light appears in his eyes.

“Greg,” he says abruptly.

“Hm?”

“Earlier. You meant  _Sherlock-and-Greg_ .”

Lestrade’s heart slips out of sync at the sound of his given name on Sherlock’s tongue, and a smile tugs at his lips.

“Yeah, right then,” he says. “I suppose I did.”

And then, after a moment, when he can find his voice again, Lestrade says, “The good place.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock hums, only half-listening.

“ _Utopia_ . The good place - and the place that doesn’t exist. You said that once, remember?” At Sherlock’s nod, he adds, “So did you ever figure out which one this was?”

Sherlock fixes him with a crooked smile. He slides his fingers between Lestrade’s own, and sometime between the moon appearing as a dim wafer in the eastern sky and the thin line of dawn starting to grow on the horizon, Lestrade’s thumb finds its way to Sherlock’s wrist, brushing lightly over the tarnished flesh.

Three years. Sixteen scars.

He owes them so much.  


**Author's Note:**

> Some years ago, in one of my English classes, the conversation came around to _utopia_ and its double meaning - something I've found fascinating ever since. For those who are interested,[ the internet](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Utopia) puts it far better than I ever could. And, as I discovered last week, _Mad Men_ actually puts a [pretty good spin](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eO-dsETUy6I) on it as well.


End file.
